Partners in Crime
by Richefic
Summary: John Watson receives some devastating news which puts a spanner in his medical ambitions. Will Sherlock prove capable of the kind of comfort and reassurance he needs or will their partnership be ended before its even begun? Set between 1.1 and 1.2.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer – John's ambition for a career in laparoscopic and bloodless surgery comes from his CV in _The Blind Banker_, the characters belong to ACD and BBC._

_AN – Something of a computer glitch means I can't presently access the final chapter of "Hope for Heros" from where I currently am but in the meantime hope you enjoy this._

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_And in our main story today snow continues to cause chaos across much of the country as Britain remains gripped in what may well turn out to be the coldest winter since records began._

This particular morning John Watson wasn't really listening to the television news as he spooned his cereal into his mouth and flicked through the morning paper, a mug of hot tea at his side. Even though, it was now second nature for him to layer a t-shirt and a shirt under his jumper against the worse the British winter could offer, most of his attention was focused on waiting. Any moment now would come the telltale _clink_ of the letterbox, followed by the soft _thunk_ of a pile of post hitting the mat.

Keeping anything a secret from Sherlock Holmes was no easy thing. John knew that getting to the post before Mrs Hudson saw the letter's tell tale red franking mark on the outside of the envelope would be key. He supposed it wasn't so unusual for a Doctor to be getting correspondence from the General Medical Council. But he couldn't risk her mentioning it to Sherlock. His flatmate might have a lofty disdain for all things he considered normal and thus _boring_, but if he decided he _did _want to know something he was utterly relentless until he got to the truth.

_"Even with his friends?" Harry had asked when he had been trying to explain why it wasn't the best idea for her to meet Sherlock just yet. "I mean, I thought all that was reserved for murderers and the like?"_

_"Especially with his friends," John had replied. And contrary to Donovan's opinion Sherlock did have one or two of those. "I think it's sort of his way of showing an interest."_

It helped that this whole sorry business had begun before John had made Sherlock's acquaintance so the consulting detective was utterly ignorant of the existence of the GMC review board. Also, the same pride that was preventing John from sharing this news with his flatmate had also stopped him from telling Mike Stamford about it at their first meeting. So, if f John could only ensure that nothing relating to the board's enquiry or its findings ever made their way into the flat at 221b Baker Street then Sherlock Holmes never needed to know anything about any of this.

He counted his blessings that this was a week where Sherlock had been sufficiently interested in a case Lestrade had produced to spend the last four days chasing around London on no food and almost no sleep. Yesterday, they had finally caught their murderer; Sherlock had been on that temporary high which came from the flush of success, had finally condescended to eat. A recent favour for a Greek Taverna proprietor saw them sharing plate after plate of mezethes, (John had passed on the octopus). When they had finally returned to 221b Baker Street Sherlock, deciding for once to sleep in his own bed, had taken himself off and not yet emerged.

Clink Thunk

With reflexes honed under fire John was already up and moving down the stairs before the _clink _became a _thunk._ Scooping up the small pile of post now lying by the front door he swiftly scanned the envelopes, tucking one thin manila window example safely into his pocket, before extracting Mrs Hudson's post, placing that on the chair in the hall as usual, and carrying the rest of it upsairs to the flat.

"Anything for me?" Sherlock asked, as he wandered in wearing a grey t-shirt and pyjama pants under his dressing gown and flopped on the couch. "I'd kill for a good murder right now. Soo booored."

"There's bills," John advised him. Not bothering to point out that it had been mere hours since their last case and that Sherlock had spent most of those asleep. "Your phone, your mobile broadband, your tailor and my phone. You're paying that one too, by the way."

At that, Sherlock twisted around to look at him, outrage writ large all over his features "And why am I paying for your phone exactly?"

"I don't know, maybe, because you use it more than I do?" John fixed him with a level look.

"Humpf."

Sherlock huffed dramatically, but he didn't argue so John took that as a small victory. Carefully keeping the amusement off his face he decided to push his luck, just a little.

"You could do the shopping too, if you want something to do? The list is on the table."

"I said I was bored, not comatose." Sherlock grumped.

"Fine," John declared, picking up his short dark jacket and shrugging into it. "I'll go. It's Thursday, so it'll probably be full of pensioners. I might be a while."

"Don't forget the milk." Was Sherlock's only reply.

Just in case Sherlock _was_ watching from the window John took care to head off in the direction of the nearest Tesco Express at 110 Baker Street. Then he simply began to walk, feeling the presence of the manilla envelope in his pocket weighing him down. He was both desperate to know and equally dreading the news it might contain. So, for now he just walked, ignoring the biting cold and threatening clouds, until his leg began to ache and his face felt numb with cold.

Looking around he realised he was right across the other side of Regent's Park, not far from London Zoo. Resigning himself to the inevitable, he sought out a nearby bench and sank gratefully onto its wooden slats. Putting his hand in his pocket he pulled out the envelope, noting with a mixture of emotions the way his damned hand was shaking yet again. Still, he hadn't been a soldier for nothing, so he summoned all his courage and ripped open the envelope and unfolded the single type written sheet inside.

Afterwards he had no idea how long he had been sitting there. Long enough for the morning light to sink into the gloom of a British mid-winter afternoon. Long enough for his body to stiffen up, his lips to crack and his extremities grow numb. Just not long enough to deaden the burning pain of loss and the raging fury of waste that spiralled around his thoughts. If he couldn't bea soldieror _a _surgeon then what bloody use was he? He supposed he would have no choice but to change his CV now.

"You look like a man who could use a good cup of coffee, but in the absence of that, I suppose this will have to do."

John blinked at the familiar lidded cup from his favourite "Criterion" coffee shop, which had materialised in front of him, a thin, warm, tendril of steam rising up out of the small sippy hole. Automatically, he reached out to take it, focusing on its warmth as his fingers curled around it, rather than on the rather unexpected figure of Mycroft Holmes who wrapped his wool coat a little tighter around him before settling himself beside him on the bench, his matching cup looking slightly incongruous, held almost at arms length in a well manicured hand. Grateful to have a target for all his anger and frustration John spoke in a clipped tone.

"Sherlock is at home. I'm sure he would welcome a visit."

"Drink your coffee, John." Mycroft instructed, not unkindly. "My brother is already going to be rather put out when he realises how effectively you have manipulated him without you contracting hyperthermia."

"Don't you have some crisis that requires your attention?" John asked, his tone slightly more conciliatory as he slipped obediently at his coffee, not remotely surprised to find it made exactly the way he liked it. "Or is that why you're here? You need Sherlock's help? Because I'm assuming you weren't just out for a stroll."

"No indeed," Mycroft agreed without a glimmer of surprise. This man hadn't befriended his little brother by being any kind of idiot. "However, I must confess to being rather concerned when it came to my attention that you had been sitting out in these sub-zero temperatures for some several hours. I am truly sorry for your loss."

John tensed slightly and the fingers of his right hand almost unconsciously found the now crumpled manila envelope now safely back in his pocket. He didn't bother asking how Mycroft had found out his bad news. The elder Holmes had probably known the review board's verdict long before he did. Somehow that knowledge made this whole thing seem that little bit more real and therefore even harder to deal with.

"It's not like anyone actually died." He tried.

"You'll forgive me if I chose to disagree," Unsurprisingly, Mycroft immediately saw right through his facade. Rather more surprising was the slim silver hip flask which he offered with a sympathetic look. At John's raised brow he smiled thinly. "Purely medicinal, of course."

Accepting the flask, John smothered his grin, before he took a long, warming drink of something he thought was brandy. It seemed slightly disloyal to Sherlock to like Mycroft this much, but John could see that, despite his irritating habits, the man really did have his younger brother's best interests at heart and watching out for Sherlock, who seemed to lack all sense of self preservation, as he knew from personal experience was more than a full time job. John couldn't help but feel that he and Mycroft were both on the same side. Certainly, John's own elder sister Harry had never displayed this level of care and interest in him. It wasn't solely the burn of the alcohol that warmed his chest, just a little.

"The ability to practice surgery was an integral part of the man you used to be," Mycroft was still talking. "And if I am not mistaken, it was a fundamental element of your more recent ambition to gain experience in accident and emergency medicine in order to work towards a career in laparoscopic and bloodless surgery. Am I wrong?"

"No, you're not wrong," John sighed. Now that surgery was off the menu for the foreseeable future he would have to re-think his career goals. He flexed his left hand whose sporadic and unpredictable spasms were at the root of the GMC's decision that his licence to practice surgery should be temporarily suspended until he was passed fit, which might take weeks, months or even years. "I don't know what I was thinking."

"At the time, I would imagine you were strongly motivated to continue your service to society. Such a selfless trait is really the only explanation for your willingness to put up with my little brother at his worst."

"Excuse me, what?" John frowned.

"What was it Inspector Lestrade said to you?" Mycroft mused. "Sherlock Holmes is a great man and one day, if we're very, very, lucky, he might even be a good one. You are a man who likes to save others, John, even if it must be from themselves, I'm sure you don't underestimate how many other people you are in fact helping by supporting my little brother in his pursuits."

"I'm not really doing anything," John protested, not bothering to point out that Mycroft usually referred to his brother's cases as 'trivia'. "Sherlock's the one who pulls off all the clever stuff."

"Now John, we both know that's not quite true. Sherlock needs you. You provide those little insights into humanity that he so struggles with. Not to mention that you have my eternal gratitude for being the only person other than Mummy and perhaps your redoubtable Mrs Hudson who had proved able to compel him to take the least bit of care of himself."

"Your eternal gratitude?" John eyed Mycroft speculatively. "I don't suppose that you could..?"

"Alas, no," Mycroft shook his head. "The machinations of the GMC are rather beyond my feeble reach. And when you have had time to reflect, I am sure that, despite your obvious passion for your work, you will agree that it's not in anyone's interest for you to pursue a career in surgery in the present circumstances. "

"You're right, of course," John rubbed at his brow. Despite only being up for a few hours he felt utterly exhausted. His head felt stuffed with cotton wool, his chest tight, his body totally numb and his very bones ached. "I suppose I'll think of something else."

"I would suggest that your first order of business is to remove yourself from this most inclement weather," Mycroft rose to his feet. As he did so, against all normal protocols which banned any but maintenance vehicles from this area of the park, a black car, with obscured windows glided to a stop on the gravel path in front of them. "My driver will take you home."

"That's very kind of you," John carefully braced himself, schooling his expression before he forced his protesting body to its feet. "But I have an errand I need to run first."

"All taken care of," At a discreet gesture from Mycroft, the boot popped open to reveal a trio of Tesco Express bags stuffed with all the kinds of things John had already written on his list. "I took the liberty of including some boxes of tissues, a bottle of olbus oil and some varieties of soup." Mycroft elaborated.

"Thank you," John's lips' quirked at this distinctly Holmesian version of caring. "I'm sure I'll be fine. I'm still a doctor if nothing else."

Mycroft waited until John Watson had sunk wearily into the soft, black leather seats and closed the door. He had already ensured that the driver had the heating on full blast and that there would be a fresh hot toddy of lemon, honey, whiskey and warm water waiting on the armrest. As the car glided away it occurred to him that Dr John Watson really needed to buy a better coat. He was also a man in utter denial.

"Oh, my dear chap," He sighed. "You really have no idea of your own importance. But I hope you will soon. Very soon."


	2. Chapter 2

AN- John's bout of pneumonia is in homage to BC and based upon some comments he made about being diagnosed with the sickness during filming.

* * *

It didn't begin all at once. So, despite his aches and pains John was able to avoid Sherlock's attention by griping loudly about the supermarket queues and the rising cost of teabags until he was sure his flatmate had completely tuned him out before unobtrusively excusing himself with a good book for a hot bath and an early night. A decent night's sleep, a couple of paracetamol and a mug of hot tea and he felt well enough to tag along to the latest crime scene when Lestrade called.

"You alright?" The DI enquired, the intensity of his gaze holding John back as Sherlock bounded ahead like a blood hound, already on the scent. "You're looking a bit peaky."

"Bit of a cold," John allowed. "It's nothing really."

"Must have been a hell of a shock to your system, coming back to a winter as cold as this one after Afghanistan," Lestrate commiserated, as his eyes took in the short donkey jacket. "Maybe, you should take a leaf out of his Lordship's book and get a proper coat."

"This one does me fine," John brushed that off. His coat still had plenty of wear in it. "It's honestly just a cold."

"If you say so," Lestrade's curiosity gave way in the face of Watson's superior medical knowledge and he turned his attention to the case, conversing with Sherlock while John took in the pale corpse whose insides were spilling out across the floor in yet another abandoned, building, not _so_ different from Afghanistan then, John surmised, except for the bone numbing, mind chilling, utterly freezing cold.

"John?" Sherlock asked with an edge of impatience which suggested he had called his name before.

"Mmm?" With an effort, John straightened up from where he had slumped against the wall and blinked rapidly in an attempt to shift his brain into gear. "What?"

"Time and cause of death," Sherlock snapped. "Anytime today would be most useful."

"Um," John roused himself sufficiently to check over the body and deliver his findings. It helped that the pattern of the bruises and tinges of blue gave clear indication of suffocation, with the lack of bleeding suggesting that the dissection had occurred post mortem. Unfortunately, his increasingly befuddled thought process couldn't come up with a coherent reason for the missing liver. "Transplant? Ritual Cannibalism?

"I'll check the NHS transplant data base," Lestrade spoke more out of obligation than conviction. "See if there's any match."

"I wouldn't bother," Sherlock's scathing tone was even less accommodating. "Look at those florid cheeks, the bloodshot eyes, that impressive beer gut. This man was an alcoholic, barely a few steps away from chronic liver failure. I would have thought you'd have spotted that John, given your sister's history. The organ was far more likely taken a trophy or a symbol of revenge."

"Your sister is an alcoholic?" Lestrade blurted, in some surprise. Sherlock looked up just in time to catch the pale, pinched, look on John's face, as several of the police working the crime scene turned to stare, before two bright spots of hot colour flamed in his cheeks and Lestrade was swiftly backtracking. "Sorry, none of my business, it's just I would never have guessed."

"Was that inappropriate?" Sherlock blinked. He had simply been making an observation it hadn't occurred to him that John might not appreciate his advertising his sister's addiction to the world at large. He looked at his flatmate and attempted to make amends. "If you hadn't missed the symptoms I wouldn't have been forced to bring it up."

"Right," Lestrade spoke up, the way he filled the awkward silence in the room as he stepped almostl protectively in front of John, sheilding him from prying eyes, which suggested Sherlock's olive branch had somehow missed its mark. "Symbol of Revenge, you'll check your contacts, right?"

"Of course," Sherlock agreed.

Holmes was already halfway down the stairs, Lestrade following loyally in his wake, before John could find the energy to peel himself off the wall once more and followed at a slower pace. He gritted his jaw in self recrimination, he was usually so disciplined, used to living a very healthy existence, taking regular exercise. He was frankly annoyed with himself for getting sick in the first place. Still, he wasn't about to let some little virus bring him down when a bullet had failed to stop him.

"You took your time," Sherlock didn't spare him a glance as he focused on flagging down a taxi. "If this is boring you I'm sure you could always catch up with some of those television shows you and Mrs Hudson seem to find so stimulating."

"Two words, Sherlock," John said, in the tone that said, shut up or I will kill you. "Jeremy Kyle."

"Hardly the same thing," Sherlock protested, as a taxi stopped and he climbed into its cocooning warmth, leaving John to follow. "If your cold means that you don't have the inclination or ability to assist me in my endeavours then perhaps you should stay at home and avoid spreading your germs."

Sherlock had honestly meant his words as a kindness. John's uncharacteristic lethargy and early night the day before hardly passed un-noticed. He had tried to re-energise his flatmate with the excitement of a new case but when the other man had remained subdued and distracted the consulting detective had reached the logical conclusion that the good doctor was merely soldiering on his sake and that a period of rest and recuperation would be advantageous to return his flatmate to his now accustomed state of usefulness.

However, the way John's shoulders stiffened and his face coloured with an un-natural flush the man had somehow once more found his words offensive. Sherlock expected a barrage of the exasperated comments that John usually employed to express his feelings. He almost looked forward to it. Sherlock might occasionally struggle with the complexity of human emotion but he did understand that whilst Anderson and Donovan's gripes were designed to belittle him, John's comments always had his best interests at heart.

"Right," John's tone was clipped and hard, as he deliberately averted his gaze. "Fine. I'll do that."

Sherlock frowned feeling somewhat perplexed and oddly cheated of his fun as he covertly studied his flatmate's profile. He dismissed the red rimmed eyes, sallow complexion, and increasingly laboured breathing as irrelevant, focusing instead on the rigid set of John's shoulders, the tight clench of his jaw and the slight but significant tremor in his left hand. He understood that he had apparently pushed even John's remarkable tolerance too far. But he had no idea how to go about making things right.

As soon as they got back at 221b John silently made himself a cup of tea. Even though he was aware of Sherlock tracking his every movement he didn't offer to make the other man a cup and took a little bitter pleasure in that fact that his usually egotistical flatmate obviously didn't feel comfortable in making his habitual imperious demands about milk and no sugar for him. Stalking past the figure on the sofa he took himself off to his room without a word, with a large glass of water and a box of Mycroft's tissues.

Finally alone, John sighed with aching weariness and stripped off his layers of clothing, for once just leaving them in a discarded pile on the floor instead of neatly hanging them up. Eschewing his normal sleepwear of t-shirt and pyjama pants he pulled on a thick sweat shirt and warm comfy sweat pants, convinced that crawling under the duck down duvet would be enough banish his now uncontrollable chills, as he attempted to smother his increasingly hacking cough into his pillow.

Sometime later he woke to realise, that despite the freezing temperatures he had managed to soak the bed sheets with his own sweat, proving that he was seriously ill. Forcing himself to sit up, he was consumed by another harsh, aching cough, as his body struggled to expel the thick green rubbish building up in lungs. The action left his throat feeling raw, but as he put yet another tissue in the now over flowing waste basket, he realised his glass was dry. He was just about to push himself unwillingly to his feet when his bedroom door suddenly burst open and the light clicked on.

"Here," Sherlock was holding a glass of cold water, whist he thrust into John's hand before offering by way of explanation "Your coughing was stopping me from thinking."

"I only coughed once." John protested.

"You were doing it in your sleep," Sherlock surprised him. "Couldn't you tell?"

"Strangely enough, no," John countered, even as he sipped at the water. It slipped down, blessedly cool and soothing along his raw throat. "Thank you."

He saw the way that Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he took in the pile of clothing discarded on the floor, the sweat soaked bedding, the overflowing waste basket and finally John himself. The Doctor knew he must look bad. He certainly felt it. Even so he was slightly surprised when Sherlock stepped forward and pressed the back of his hand lightly against his forehead. The contact felt cool and comforting and he fought the urge to lean into that touch.

"I'm fine," He tried to cover his own embarrassment. "I'm just a bit warm."

"39.4." Sherlock responded.

"What?" John blinked. That was quite a high fever. "You're just guessing, even you can't measure something with that degree of accuracy without a thermometer."

"I don't guess." Sherlock protested.

"Yes, you do," John reminded him. "Harry's drinking. My _left_ shoulder, shall I go on?"

"Fine," Sherlock huffed. "Let's test my hypothesis shall we?"

John tried not to feel too bereft when Sherlock lifted his hand and turned on his heel, intent on whatever his latest mission happened to be. He spend a second or two mourning the lack of that simple human contact when it occurred to his illness fogged brain that he perhaps ought to be more concerned that his flatmate apparently intended to test this particular hypothesis on _him._ When Sherlock bounded back into the bedroom brandishing a large mercury thermometer he frowned.

"Weren't you using that for your experiment checking the boiling temperature of stomach acid?"

"I washed it," Sherlock protested impatiently. "It's perfectly sanitary."

"Still not putting that thing in my mouth, my armpit or anywhere else you were planning on sticking it," John protested. A quick rinse under the cold tap wasn't nearly good enough for him. "If you must do this go fetch the digital one from my medical bag."

"Won't do any good, it's broken." Sherlock announced.

"What? When? How?" John gritted his teeth, but found that he lacked the energy to explain to his flatmate how important that small tool was to his work and his numerous patients. "Never mind, look, it's just a bit of a cold, a bit more sleep I'll be just fine in an hour or two."

"Honestly John, your dry cough, has already developed into a hacking cough accompanied by green phlegm. The fever and night sweats go without saying. Your breathlessness and pain in your chest are evident in your short sentences and desire to get me to leave. Granted confusion is one of the symptoms but I would imagine that even a first year medical student would consider that sufficient data to deduce that what you have is not a cold but the beginning of pneumonia, _doctor._" Sherlock's condescending tone grated.

"Fine, well, if I'm such an open book then you don't need me to enlighten you," John lay back down on the damp, clammy sheets and flipped rather obviously _a la Sherlock_ onto his side, presenting his uncommunicative back to the consulting detective. "Turn the light off when you leave."

He waited, fully expecting that the sharp click of the light switch would be swiftly followed by the sound of his bedroom door being petulantly slammed and swift departing footsteps, before he was left all alone in the warm orange glow that passed for darkness in central London. To his surprise, none of those things happened. Instead, the mattress dipped unexpectedly as Sherlock sat down on the edge of the double bed.

"What do you need?"

Despite everything John almost smiled at the raw honestly of that enquiry. He suspected that his flatmate was focusing on his physical requirements, more water, effective medications, clean bedding. But he also knew that if he told Sherlock that what he really needed to feel better was a warm hug and a bedtime story the other man was braced to deliver.

"You know, John observed without moving or even opening his eyes. "I'm pretty sure that you're not as married to your work as you pretend to be. If you don't date then why does every one we ever meet when we're out always think that I'm you're boyfriend?"

And in that instant, Sherlock understood exactly why John Watson mattered so much in his life. He had initially thought it was because the man was more tolerant than most of his idiosyncrasies. Then he had imagined it was because his medical knowledge and intrinsic understanding of what made the average person tick was so useful to him. After that it had centred on the fact that he had grown accustomed to John's company and their shared joy in chasing the criminals of London. Now he realised that at the root of all of this was their friendship, even if he was an arse John Watson was still good enough to forgive him in his own unique way.

"Maybe, that's because I'm so devilishly handsome," Sherlock suggested, deadpan.

"You forgot modest." John responded as he rolled carefully around to look his flatmate in the eye. Even red rimmed and shining a little too brightly his too pale face, his own eyes crinkled with amusement at the very idea.

"Now I know you're feverish," Sherlock responded with an equally warm smile.

"Yeah," John's reciprocal smile morphed into a frown. "You might not have been entirely wrong about that."

Even Sherlock knew better than to make an egotistical comment when his usually strong and vibrant flatmate was lying there looking so pale and spent. Despite John's best efforts Sherlock could clearly see the clammy sweat on his forehead, the uncontrollable trembling of his limbs, his shallow, rapid, breathing and, as his long enquiring fingers curled around the man's wrist he could feel the rapid, erratic, pulse. The desire to help his friend overrode his innate distaste of appearing foolish.

"Tell me what you need." He repeated.

"Um," John drew strength from that calm, capable, touch on his wrist and ran through his symptoms in his mind. "It's viral so antibiotics won't help, ibuprophen will treat the pain and fever. Plenty of fluids, don't suppose you'd know where to get your hands on a dehumidifier?"

"I'll find one." Sherlock vowed

"And I should probably change the sheets." John grimaced

"I'll take care of it." Sherlock didn't hesitate.

In less time than he could ever have imagined, John's bed had been stripped and changed with Sherlock's own high thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, years of boarding school creating crisp, neat, corners that mirrored John's own army training. In addition, his bedroom room looked like a branch of Boots Pharmacy. As well as the _two _dehumidifiers, one pulled in on each side of his bedroom, there was a brand new Brita water filter jug, enough bottles of Evian to survive a nuclear attack, a packet of every brand of Ibuprofen presently on the open market, plus a variety of cough medicines, decongestants and cold remedies that the doctor definitely hadn't ordered.

"This really is quite fascinating," Sherlock was enthusing as he inspected each of the labels. "This one will bring your temperature down. This will loosen your phlegm. This one here will ease your sore throat and this will ease the pressure in your sinuses."

"Sherlock, I'm not one of your experiments," John reminded him tolerantly.

"Of course not," Sherlock looked almost wounded, before his enthusiasm seized him once more. "Did you know that a teaspoon of honey with a pinch of white pepper is as effective in soothing a chesty cough as any over the counter remedy? Or that you could try ginger, raspberry, honeysuckle or liquorice tea, not to mention gargling with salt water?"

"Sherlock," John didn't know whether to be touched or terrified that his flatmate had clearly been surfing the internet to research his condition. "It's fine. Everything's fine. I just need a couple of pills some cough mixture and a few hours sleep."

"Of course," Sherlock pulled up the overstuffed armchair (upholstered in a garish purple velvet) to the side of the bed, and propped his feet on the edge of the mattress. "Don't le t me stop you."

"Sherlock," John mustered the best commanding officer tone he could manage in the circumstances. "I'm going to be sick for a few days. Maybe more, I have all the water and medication I could ever need and I'll text if I want anything. So, do me a favour and bugger off and find something else to experiment on."

"Alright," Sherlock allowed with only a small pout at being deprived of his favourite toy. "There were these gastric fibres I had been meaning to attend to."

"Oh for God's sake," John rolled his eyes as he attempted to control, his traitorous stomach at the image. "Just get out of here."

John waited until he heard Sherlock's feet bound three at a time down the stairs and into the kitchen before he carefully eased himself out of bed and levered himself slowly to his feet, steadying himself with a hand on the wall before he straightened up and focused on placing one pale foot after another into his slippers, before carefully putting his best foot forward on the bare floorboards

The small bathroom seemed further away than he remembered, so much so that John was pathetically grateful when he could use toilet for its intended purpose, take a moment to wash his hands and face and strip off his stained t-shirt to sponge away the dried on sweat. Only to realise that all was not at all well as his head swam the Victorian tiled floor swirled before his eyes.

Those tiles were smooth and cold and hard and he knew this was really going t_o hurt._

"John!"

He only had a second to register Sherlock's voice, before there was a vice like grip on his arm, a muffled curse, followed by a dull thump, accompanied by the sounds of many things falling. When the world stopped moving John was sitting on the cold bathroom floor with his back and shoulders resting against Sherlock's chest in a tangle of arms and leg, and covered in a pile of random shampoo bottles, shaving and shower gel.

"Ouch." He managed.

"Did you hit your head?" Sherlock was already turned him around, using his thumb to pull down the skin below his eyes and check his pupils, feeling dazed and groggy John weakly tried to push him off. "John," Sherlock raised his voice insistently. "Did you hit your head?"

"No," John managed. "No, I'm fine."

"You'll forgive me if I beg to differ with your medical diagnosis, Doctor," Sherlock's tone was both utterly unreadable and full of meaning. "But I am beginning to realise that your definition of "fine" doesn't fall within any normal parameters."


	3. Chapter 3

AN – Sorry about the delay in posting, I had what should have been a simple fall but actually managed to break a rib! Much better now thanks to modern medicine.

Many thanks to everyone who corrected my transposition of the figures regarding John's high temperature which I have now amended as to the anon review which pointed out pneumonia was more likely to be bacterial than viral, I hope this begins to answer that – wouldn't want to give too much away!

_Set between Study in Pink and the Blind Banker

* * *

_

The bathroom floor was covered with garish yellow and white tiles which dated them precisely to the mid nineteen seventies. They were cold and hard and from this close up indescribably ugly. Feeling his flatmate shiver involuntarily in his arms, Sherlock frowned and turned his attention to the matter in hand.

"Can you stand?"

John didn't speak but the way he reached out to grab the edge of the bath and began to lever himself to his feet was an answer in itself. His face was set with determination however each slow and careful movement bore witness to how badly he was really feeling. By the time he eventually stood up, his brow was clammy with sweat and his face completely ashen. Even so, when Sherlock rose smoothly to his own feet and reached out to steady him, his assistance was politely but firmly rejected.

"I can manage."

Sherlock's brow furrowed slightly. It was perfectly obvious to him that John could _not_ manage. However, allowing him to stagger unaided to his room simply in order to prove his hypothesis would only risk further injury. On the other hand, Sherlock already had sufficient experience of John Watson's stubbornness to realise that simply pointing that self evident truth would not have the slightest effect.

* * *

_For once Sherlock had been content to pass the evening sitting in the grey leather armchair, one long leg crossed over another, the only movement in the room the flicker of the gas fire and the occasional turn of a page as he read, his expression a study in concentration as he allowed himself to be utterly absorbed. He didn't even bother to look up as familiar footsteps sounded on the stairs._

"_That would be\ nice." He drawled._

"_Sorry, what?" John Watson stopped in the middle of the living room._

"_Some tea," Sherlock continued reading. "You were thinking of making some. I thought I would save you the trouble of asking."_

"_Right," John sighed "That was good of you."_

_The unexpectedly defeated sound made Sherlock frown slightly, even as his flatmate toed off his shoes and headed towards the kettle. Peering over the top of his book, Sherlock noted that his usually tolerant flatmate's shoulders were unnaturally tense, his jaw clenched and his mouth set in a thin, unhappy, line. Eyes narrowing fractionally, Sherlock's brain began analysing the available data._

_1. John had been absent for almost five hours_

_2. Given the way he had left the beans simmering on the hob and shrugged into his jacket with nothing more than a warning not to let the place actually burn down during his absence the departure had been urgent but unplanned._

_3. His expression of resignation rather than anxiety suggested that whatever the 'emergency' was it was something that John was sure he could handle – or had handled before._

_4. However, his uncharacteristically defeated air upon his return indicated that things had not gone as well as he expected._

_5. The fact that the Doctor appeared not to have noticed the fresh bright red blood staining his right shirt sleeve suggested a lack of professional detachment. Not a patient, something personal._

_6. John's parent's was both dead. He wasn't presently dating. So, either a close friend (unlikely – if John Watson had a close friend not presently deployed abroad he would be sharing a flat with him rather than Sherlock Holmes) which left his only surviving relative._

_7. Taking all the factors into consideration it was clear that John had been summoned to attend to Harry, because she was drunk, and she had not exactly welcomed his intervention._

_Sherlock bided his time, waiting until John, looking pale and drawn, had padded over in his stocking feet to deposit a mug of tea by his side. Curling his long white fingers around the still tanned wrist, he held his flat mate in place, noting that John didn't protest the contact, nor voice any objection as he pushed up his sleeve to reveal the still bleeding crescent shaped imprint on his arm. Refraining from stating the extremely obvious Sherlock let the warmth of his fingers on John's pulse point and his intensity of his regard ask the unspoken question. _

"_Harry bit me." John admitted, averting his gaze uncomfortably._

_The quiet words were spoken without any real emotion. Except perhaps a touch of weary resignation, certainly not any of the shock and outrage which might be expected from a man in his thirties whose older sister his just sank her teeth into his arm hard enough to draw blood. _

_Not the first time this had happened then. _

"_Nasty," Sherlock observed dispassionately. "The human mouth is a breeding ground for bacteria, even more so than dogs." _

"_Maybe I should get a rabies shot then." His flat mate's tone was scathing._

"_Don't be ridiculous, John. As a doctor I'm sure your tetanus is up to date. That will be quite sufficient."_

"_Well good, that's good, isn't it?" _

_John pulled his hand free, his body language making it clear that he thought this situation was actually anything but good. Stalking over to the kitchen he pulled out the First Aid Kit and sat down in one of the kitchen chairs as he bared his arm and methodically began cleaning the red raw wound, his tight shuttered expression the only clue to the emotional turmoil boiling below._

_Not _remotely _acceptable._

_Sherlock set aside his book and strode across the room to sit at the kitchen table opposite his friend. His eyes tracked the doctor's hands as they cleaned out the wound with antiseptic then deftly cut gauze to size before wrapping a long thin bandage around his arm. As he worked John occasionally glanced curiously across at Sherlock, as if wondering what he was doing, which was odd, because the consulting detective thought it should have been obvious that his silent vigil was intended to be comforting._

"_I'm fine." John spoke up suddenly,_

_No you're not," Sherlock corrected. "You're a doctor. You've spent your life helping people. Yet you have had to stand by as your sister destroys her marriage and her life with her drinking. You've made a real difference to total stranger's lives naturally you're blaming yourself for being unable to reach your own flesh and blood." _

"You're_ analysing _my_ sibling relationship? That's a bit rich, don't you think?" But John's lips quirked slightly, as some of the tension leaked out of him._

_Sherlock grinned back at his flatmate. The man's willingness to stand his ground and not be cowed either by Sherlock's acerbic attitude or his arrogant demeanour was refreshing. More significantly, John Watson had already proved a sufficiently staunch ally to save Sherlock's life. The consulting detective was determined to repay that favour even if he had to save John Watson one piece at a time. _

"_As annoying as I find my brother's interference I am well aware that he believes he only has my best interests at heart," Sherlock admitted with unusual candour."Your relationship witb Harry is rather more complex."_

"_That's one way of describing it." John sighed again._

_As he finished wrapping the gauze around his arm, he split the ends into two, preparing to take one strand into his mouth in order to awkwardly tie off the knot._

"_Let me." Sherlock offered._

"_It's okay," John gave him a warm smile, even as he rejected his assistance. "I've got it."

* * *

_

It never ceased to amaze Sherlock how people would look but they never _saw_.

They looked at Sherlock Holmes with his sharp intellect and even sharper tongue and regarded him as a cold, calculating man, devoid of empathy or warmth. And Sherlock knew he was all those things and far worse. They looked at John Watson and recognised a man who had devoted his life to caring for others, saving others, whose gentle humour and remarkable tolerance could be relied upon. And John was all of those things and far more.

What they failed to _see_ was Sherlock was a man of extremes. He could be cutting. But he would hug and kiss Mrs Hudson with unmitigated delight. Within days of meeting John Watson he was manhandling the man into his coat and out the door. Even total strangers could elicit a genuinely warm smile given the right circumstances. In contrast, John was polite but reserved, expressing his affection for Mrs Watson with words rather than touch, keeping his distance from others both physically and emotionally, especially, when it came to accepting help.

"_You have a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help."_

Sherlock might have been wrong about Harry being John's brother but he had been spot on about the former soldier's stubborn streak. John helped _others_, but he was fiercely independent in addressing his own needs. Asking for help simply wasn't in his nature and, even when it was freely offered he was resistant, far preferring to take matters into his own hands, regardless of the discomfort or inconvenience it might cause him. Lucky for him then that Sherlock knew exactly which buttons to press.

"That's quite the double standard you have Doctor. You can shoot a man to save my life but I can't help you back to bed?" He challenged.

"We'd only know each other a day or so. If I'd had any idea what an idiot you were going to be I would never have bothered." John retorted.

"It was an experiment!" Sherlock defended his latest transgression.

"And why exactly did it have to involve _my _jumper? Couldn't you have used one of your own?

"Mine are all cashmere. I needed a wool polyester mix to duplicate the fibres found at the murder scene." Sherlock retorted, as if that should be obvious.

"And it didn't occur to you to take a sample, rather than setting fire to the whole jumper?"

"Actually," Sherlock's lighting fast features gave him away as he winced. "No."

"Prat." John scoffed fondly, as he settled himself more comfortably on his mattress.

Sherlock grinned down at him unrepentantly, one of his rare, true smiles. He found that he was oddly flattered that under the cover of their amicable bickering John had trusted him enough to help him across the landing, feeling the other man's weight pressed against his side, less as a burden and more as a hard earned and rather particular privilege.

"What me to tuck you in?" He teased now.

The rapid change in John's expression was the only warning he got and even with his lightening fast reflexes it wasn't enough. John barely managed to lean over the side of the bed before he was vomiting sour smelling bile. Sherlock was unable to do anything but watch as John's body efficiently emptied his stomach of its recent contents. Cold tears ran down John's face at the sheer physical effort and he was sheet white by the time he flopped back onto the pillows.

"Sorry." He managed. "Sorry."

It occurred to Sherlock that he should say something, do something, but the sight of his friend looking so utterly spent had him momentarily frozen to the spot. Even the sound of familiar but unwelcome footsteps on the stairs did nothing to stir him. The acrid smell of vomit filled the room, causing his nose to wrinkle, just as John's eyes flicked in his direction and Sherlock knew by the way his friend's expression instantly shuttered that John had jumped to entirely the wrong conclusion.

"Don't worry," John's tone was clipped. "I'll clean it up."

"It seems like I have arrived just in time." Mycroft spoke from the doorway, before Sherlock could respond, a coolly raised brow the only indication that he had even registered the acrid smell.

"Piss off Mycroft," Sherlock snapped. "I don't have time for your spy games right now."

"On the contrary, dear brother, I'm not here to solicit assistance but rather to provide it," Mycroft corrected. A man with an obviously military bearing appeared at his shoulder. "I regret that I wasn't able to second anyone from your former unit John, but since they still have two months of their deployment in Afghanistan to complete I'm afraid my meddling would be rather frowned upon. However, I trust you will find that Lieutenant Williams more than qualified to see your present medical needs."

Sherlock didn't bother to hide his slightly malicious grin as his elder brother's little speech came to an end. He had seen the way John's eyes had narrowed and his hands had clenched in the bedclothes as Mycroft had produced his minion. He knew exactly what was coming next. There was no way the John Watson he knew was going to accept help and assistance of a most personal and intimate kind from a total stranger. Smugly, Sherlock stuffed his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels and as he waited for John's inevitable outburst.

"Thank you, that's very thoughtful of you." John said politely.

Sherlock's face instantly twisted into a scowl, even as Mycroft's split into a magnanimous smile.

"Really, it's the least I could do," He almost purred with satisfaction. "It's not like Sherlock is going to be mopping your fevered brow after all."

"Mycroft, a word," Sherlock snapped. "Downstairs, if you please."

"Certainly," Mycroft agreed smoothly. "Lieutenant Williams here will ensure that Dr Watson is comfortable."

Feeling totally exhausted John listened with half an ear as the two brothers made their way down the stairs and the living room before the door firmly closed, then their muted voices could be heard arguing back and forth. John could just about distinguish between Sherlock's rich tones and Mycroft's lighter timbre before he was distracted.

"Sir?" Lieutenant Williams stood respectfully at attention. "Best to get you under the covers, then I'll clear up and we can see about getting you some fluids, maybe a spot of soup?"

"Of course." John agreed wearily.

He made no further comment as the Lieutenant removed his slippers and lifted his legs around onto the mattress, before pulling the duvet over him. John closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the Army medic donning a pair of rubber gloves and sprinkling absorption powder on the small pile of vomit, before sweeping up and disposing of the resulting granules and finishing off by applying stain remover foam to the dark spot on the carpet and working it in before he vacuumed it off.

"I'll get you some water now, sir," Williams informed him. "And then something to eat, perhaps? I'm a dab hand at scrambled eggs or your housekeeper has made some nice chicken soup."

"Not my housekeeper," John managed as he cracked an eye open. "Let's just start with the water."

"Yes sir. Whatever you say, sir."

John huffed out a small breath and turned his head towards the window. If he had been feeling better he might even have raised a smile. Part of his brain wondered exactly what Mycroft had said to the young lad to make him quite so eager to please. He supposed he should be grateful that the elder Holmes had taken his welfare under his wing. Remembering the look of detachment on Sherlock's face as he had puked his guts up he knew he had little choice but to rely on strangers for his personal care. But it reminded him far too much of being ripped from his family for a second time and shipped to the rehabilitation centre like he didn't matter.

Damn it, he was _not_ going to cry.

Closing his eyes tight again the burn of tears and clenching his fists tightly under the bedclothes, he didn't react as confident footsteps strode across the floorboards and, with a soft clink, deposited a glass of water on the bedside cabinet. However, the scent of chicken soup tickling his nostrils had his eyes snapping open in an instant.

"My orders were just water." He rasped.

"Then it's a good thing I don't take orders from you," Sherlock's smooth tones rebuked him. "You need to eat something John and it will hurt Mrs Hudson's feelings if you reject her culinary efforts."

Casting his flatmate a dark look, John nevertheless, pulled himself sufficiently upright to accept bowl and spoon. They both knew that there was no way that either of them would deliberately hurt Mrs Hudson's feelings, if it was in their power to avoid it. Steeling himself, John took a cautious mouthful, pleasantly surprised by the rich, flavours, even as the warm liquid soothed his aching throat, eased his sore esophagus and filled his traitorous stomach.

"What happened to Lieutenant Williams?" He asked after a few mouthfuls.

"Mycroft took him with him when he left." Sherlock smile held an immense amount of satisfaction as he recalled their argument. "Good riddance."

"And you're okay with that?" John paused in his eating to look pointedly at his flatmate, who had settled himself on his bed, his hip a comforting warm pressure against John's leg. "Really?"

"Of course," Sherlock looked surprised that he even felt the need to ask. "I was the one who insisted. Of course, it helped that I could remind my brother that anybody who keeps human eyeballs in the kitchen microwave is hardly going to feel remotely squeamish at the elimination of a few bodily fluids."

"Right," John smothered his grin around another mouthful of soup. The fact that Sherlock had so summarily despatched Mycroft's man was probably at least partly due to their ongoing sibling rivalry as anything else. But it was also a testament to their growing friendship that, in spite of some initial misunderstandings they had both ultimately arrived at the same place. "Why didn't I think of that?"

"I would say it was because you were an idiot," Sherlock fixed him with a knowing look. "But that wouldn't be entirely accurate, would it?"

John put his spoon down. "How long have you known?"

He supposed he should have known better than to think he could manage to keep a secret from the redoubtable Sherlock Holmes. Still, the man had already managed to surprise him with his willingness to play nursemaid, despite all that would entail, just maybe the consulting detective would also have enough tact to understand that the loss of his surgical ambitions, due to the intermittent tremor in his left hand was a serious blow.

"Long enough to wonder what on earth you were thinking, _doctor_," Sherlock fixed him with a stern look, before he pulled open the top drawer of John's bedside cabinet. Sure enough, nestled amongst the myriad of small personal items was a flat white box of antibiotics prescribed the day before in the name of J H Watson. "Bacterial, not viral I believe."

"Ah," John looked sheepish "About that .."

"You haven't been taking your pills," Sherlock was busy checking the dosage against the number of remaining pills (_one dose missed_). He liberated two of the capsules from their blister packet and picked up a glass of water, part of Sherlock's brain registered with some surprise that John had chosen to visit an exclusive private practice right on the other side of town, a strange decision for a man who had numerous contacts throughout the NHS and who was presently more than a little unemployed. "No more skipping your medication."

"Right," John agreed quickly. "No, of course, not."

A little too quickly, Sherlock surmised, even as he watched his flat mate obediently swallow down the two pills, because underneath that ready compliance was a hint of something else, possibly relief, perhaps even a touch of disappointment. Whatever it was, it meant there was something more, something else.

Something that Sherlock had missed.


	4. Chapter 4

AN- When re-watching "The Blind Banker" I was surprised to realise John actually asked Sherlock to lend him some money. So, at least part of this is intended to address would could possibly have happened between 1.1 and 1.2 to make him comfortable enough to do that.

* * *

To be honest, John wasn't sure what to expect from Sherlock's nursing skills. Part of him fondly suspected that his initial burst of altruism his flatmate would quickly become bored as the reality of the situation hit. But he had to give him credit, during those first few days, as his temperature spiked and he had tossed and turned, barking out redundant orders in a sweat soaked delirium, there had always been a glass of cold water, the touch of a cool cloth, or a quietly insistence voice rousing him enough to ensure he didn't miss a single dose of his antibiotics and every time his bladder began to feel uncomfortable, Sherlock appeared by his bedside, to help him to the bathroom.

"You made some sort of spread sheet, didn't you?" John's cracked lips quirked.

Sherlock hesitated. He had been quite proud of his calculations. The basic input/output ratio had been relatively simple, of course. But factoring in variables such as excessive thirst due to the medication, verses increased loss of hydration through the cold sweat which poured off his body had been more challenging. But when he had excitedly shared his findings with Mrs Hudson she had given had one of _those_ looks.

"_Probably not the kind of thing he wants everyon__e to know, dear."_

"Do you mind?" He asked carefully.

"Just so long as you're not thinking of posting it on your website," John joked. He didn't miss the way his flatmate's face fell. "No, Sherlock. Just .. no."

"I don't see what's wrong with it," Sherlock protested. You're a doctor you should understand that medical research necessitates looking at the working of the human body with a certain detachment, in order to ensure accurate results. And judging by the relieved expression on your face each time I have appeared my figures have reliably predicted your needs."

"And that was very thoughtful of you," John couldn't deny that it had been a blessed relief not to have to use the little bell Mrs Hudson had provided to summon help. It was bad enough that he needed assistance to get the few steps to the bathroom, without having the additional humiliation of having to ask permission every time. "But it's different when it's my body under the microscope."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, genuinely perplexed.

"Because, it just is," John shook his head, feeling a bit like he was a parent arguing with a truculent five year old, but lacking the strength or energy to marshal a more sophisticated response as Sherlock helped him back across the landing and back to his bed. "It's bad enough that I've already got everyone else treating me like some helpless invalid."

If he hadn't still been feeling so bad, he might have noticed the little furrow which appeared in Sherlock's brow at his bitter words, as he sat himself down on his bed, although perhaps not, because it disappeared almost as soon as it appeared.

"Isn't it customary for others to take care of the sick?" Sherlock wondered blandly. "As a Doctor I would think you'd understand that."

"Mrs Hudson is in her eighties," John protested. "She shouldn't be cooking all my meals. And I'm pretty sure Scotland Yard isn't paying Lestrade to read to the sick flatmate whilst you go off to a crime scene. And granted after the expenses scandal Mycroft probably used his private income to pay for the tailored silk pyjamas and matching dressing gown, although I'm still wondering he knew my exact measurements."

"Much as it pains me to admit it, he does have a very good eye," Sherlock fixed his flatmate with a penetrating look. "If you have such moral objections to others taking care of your needs why were you so quick to accept Mycroft's medical minion's unsolicited assistance?"

John's expression flittered through a number of emotions, guilt, embarrassment, an unexpected flash of vulnerability, followed swiftly by flint hard fury and stubborn resistance.

"I'm your flatmate, not your responsibility."

"Ah," Sherlock nodded as if in understanding. "Which is why you chased half way across London to shoot a serial killer stone dead denying him the thrill of his next victim without a flicker of remorse because I'm not your responsibility?"

"That was different." John protested.

"Really?" Sherlock's raised brow made it clear he wasn't agreeing.

"That was my choice," John met Sherlock's gaze squarely. "I saw your face when I was throwing up. You can't tell me that wasn't outside your comfort zone. Just because we're sharing a flat doesn't mean I expect you to take care of me."

"You were being sick." Sherlock said as if that explained everything.

John supposed it actually might if you had a brain as enormous as Sherlock Holmes. Still even in the limited time he had spent with the consulting detective he had begun to learn to read within the lines. If he hadn't been so very ill, he might even have spotted it before. His flatmate _had _cared and had _hated_ not the distasteful results when John's body had betrayed him but the fact that he had no choice but to stand helplessly by. And helplessness wasn't a state he imagined Sherlock was particularly accustomed to.

"Sherlock, everyone gets some bug or other once in a while," John tried to reassure him now. "Granted this one was a bit more serious than most, but even with all my medical training I can only offer advice to my patients on taking sensible precautions. I can't stop them from getting ill and I can't stop myself either."

Truth be told he had appreciated Sherlock's no nonsense practical style of caring. His flatmate's habit of catering to his immediate needs, rather than stifling him with unnecessary cosseting had been refreshingly comforting.

"And is sitting in Regent's Park in sub zero temperatures now considered a sensible precaution against pneumonia?" Sherlock asked. "Oh, don't look like that. Mycroft didn't tell me anything. Do you really think I need my brother's assistance to see what is happening right under my nose?"

"How did you know?" John wondered.

Even thought this was his _life_ they were talking about, and part of him was he couldn't help but feel that spark of curiosity how Sherlock had put together all the pieces.

"The antibiotics," Sherlock bounced up and retrieved the box from the bedside. "Why would a doctor who was a staunch supporter of the NHS, who has been struggling to make ends meet, go to the un-necessary expense of visiting an exclusive private clinic? At first, I thought it was Mycroft's doing but a quick search of your phone's history confirmed you had made the appointment yourself and your online banking account showed the payment had been made with your credit card."

"Because my IB number was in my filofax and I use the same password for my laptop." John sighed.

"You're learning John," Sherlock beamed. "Although, Dr Dean was most helpful in providing details of your self diagnosis, which was at least exacerbated by the indications of your very recent exposure, not to mention the fact that you arrived and left in a government car, after that, it was a simple enough matter to work out a time line of your movements that morning."

"I knew I was getting sick so I asked Mycroft's driver to make a detour." John saw no point in denying it. "You do know that Dr Dean could be struck off for sharing my medical records with you? Those things are supposed to be confidential."

"A minor detail," Sherlock waved that away. "He was most co-operative after I told him you were a suspect in an ongoing murder investigation."

"You did _what_?" John spluttered.

"Oh please, it's not like I told him you were the actual murderer." Sherlock defended his actions.

"That's not the point," John protested. "The Medical Profession is a very close knit community. I've got a reputation to think of. If you start telling people that I'm a mass murderer, I'll never get another job."

"Don't exaggerate, John," Sherlock reproved. "For one thing you don't fit the profile for a serial killer and for another it's not like you've been having much success looking for gainful employment as a practising medic even without my input. Strange then that you never mentioned Mike spoken to you about the possibility of a surgical position at Bart's. He couldn't understand why you dismissed it out of hand. But then you already knew about the review board, didn't you? And what it's verdict was likely to be. Granted the damage to your hand is unlikely to be permanent, but given the speed at which advances develop in surgery, by the time the board is prepared to pass you fit you would have to be looking at re-training at the very least. And then there are those bright young things snapping at your heels. I think we can safely say that your career as a surgeon is over."

"Right, of course," John bit the inside of his cheek hard. "Thank you so much for pointing that out. How did you know, exactly?"

"I got my laundry service to pick up your washing," Sherlock shrugged. "Rico has always proved extremely reliable at removing blood stains I reasoned that he would be similarly effective with other bodily fluids. His staff have been trained to check the pockets of garments as a matter of course. One of them gave me the letter."

"Right." John said shortly.

"I knew something was up, of course," Sherlock informed him. "First there was the way you were being oh so very helpful in collecting the post every day. Then there was your suggestion that I should go to the supermarket when you know full well I would rather die than do any such thing. Clever of you to use pension day to cover the fact that you would be absent rather longer than usual, although all that business about the teabags was trying a bit too hard, you were aiming to distract me."

"Yep, yes, I was." John agreed.

"You didn't want me to know."

"Can you blame me?" John protested. "This is important to me, Sherlock. I spent years training for this. I was _good_ at it. How would you feel if you could never solve another case?"

"I do realise that, John. I might not care to pay attention to all those mundane things that make up other people's tedious little lives. But I always _notice_," Sherlock's lips quirked, just slightly. "Particularly, when its my own flat mate. Actually, you were quite ingenious."

"And you're not upset with me?" John was both relieved and slightly put out by that realization. They were supposed to be friends as well as flat mates shouldn't Sherlock be the least bit offended that he had deliberately tried to manipulate him. "Why is that exactly?"

He knew from Sherlock's expression that his next words weren't going to be anything he wanted to hear. A thousand unpleasant possibilities raced through his mind but afterwards he would honestly admit that the truth had been the furthest thing from his mind.

"Because, I met your sister."

"Harry was here?" John looked surprised. "I don't remember that."

"No," Sherlock agreed. "You wouldn't."

* * *

_Sherlock didn't bother to look up from his reading when he heard the front doorbell. Lestrade had his own key, John was sleeping fitfully upstairs and Mrs Hudson would see to any other visitors. He listened with half an ear to the indistinct murmur of voices below and hearing the door to Mrs Hudson's flat open and close behind the conversation, he assumed that the caller had been for her and had simply pressed the wrong bell._

_So, when the door almost immediately opened again and Mrs Hudson's familiar tread hastened up the stairs, his interest was piqued. He looked over the top of his book, just in time to se her hovering in the doorway._

"_There's a young woman downstairs," She wrung her hands. "She says she's John's sister."_

"_Then she probably is, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock drew himself to his feet. "Why don't you show her up?"_

_Sherlock had yet to meet Harry Watson. But he already had enough data to form a less an ideal first impression. Not because of the drinking. He didn't have enough data to make a judgment about that. For all he knew, it had been the worry of having her only brother sent to Afghanistan which had caused her addiction. But much as resented Mycroft's interference in his life, his older brother would never have abandoned him to fend for himself as she had with John. _

"_Well, I would have done that," Mrs Hudson's face clouded with worry. "But I don't think she can quite manage the stairs," Casting a guarded look in the direction of John's bedroom she lowered her voice to a stage whisper. "Between you and me I think she is a little bit tipsy .."_

_Sherlock sighed. He didn't need the addition of Mrs Hudson's little mine of someone taking a drink or two, to deduce that Harriet Watson was probably totally plastered at 10am and judging by the noises coming from downstairs she was growing increasingly belligerent. He could hardly leave Mrs Hudson to deal with her by herself._

"_It's alright, Mrs Hudson," He gave her a reassuring smile, as he put his hands on her shoulders and gave her a peck on the cheek. "I'll take care of it. Why don't you pop the kettle on? John will be waking up soon and I'm sure he'd love a cup of tea."_

"_What about his sister?" Mrs Hudson wondered as he headed down the stairs. "Shall I make her a cup, as well? I wouldn't John to think we hadn't been welcoming?"_

"_She won't be staying for tea." Sherlock responded without looking back._

_Letting himself into Mrs Hudson's neat little living room, he wasn't remotely surprised that Harry had already found the bottle of sherry on the sideboard and helped herself to a large tumbler full._

"_Hello." He offered conversationally._

"_You're not John," Harry scowled at him. "I told that dotty old coot that I'd come to see my brother." _

"_I'm afraid John's not here at the moment," Sherlock lied smoothly. "I'm Sherlock Holmes, your brother's new flat mate."_

"_Oh right, the bloke from his blog" Harry spoke without interest. "Look, can you tell me when John's going to be back? He hasn't been returning any of my calls and I really need to speak to him." _

"_How much do you need?" Sherlock cut to the chase._

"_Sorry?" Harry blinked at him._

"_Money," Sherlock clarified. "That is what you came for, isn't it? How much do you need?"_

_For once Sherlock had no desire to explain his deductions. The fact that John's sister didn't even seem to care why he had been too indisposed to take her calls rankled with him. It also hadn't escaped his notice that all of her messages to her brother centered on her own needs rather than the welfare of her war hero brother. He was rapidly reassessing his original deduction that Harry had given her brother her old phone because she was worried about him. He certainly hadn't seen any evidence of that. It now seemed far more probable that she had only been thinking of herself._

_Clearly her separation from Clara would carry financial implications. Coupled with the fact that her excessive drinking would make it difficult to hold down a full job and the frankly cheap and rather shabby state of her wardrobe and it was clear money was tight. Although, her state of inebriation left no doubt as to where any money coming in was going. Add in the indisputable evidence that she had not seen John since he was discharged from Hospital, (Sherlock was hardly counting that disastrous episode when she had bit him) and it was clear that she wasn't here for a social visit.

* * *

_

"How much did she want?" John asked him wearily now.

"You've very quick to assume she wasn't here to enquire about your welfare," Sherlock deliberately avoided the question. "I'm assuming your inability to be able to rely on her is at the root of your issues in accepting help from others."


	5. Chapter 5

AN - Sorry for the delay, had a few issues with this part, trying to find the balance between Sherlock proving he could be a good friend without being too sappy. If its any compensation, its also the longest single chapter I've ever written.

* * *

John pressed his lips together, his jaw clenching tightly as Sherlock's deduction hit a little too close to the mark. He never talked about this, any of it.

"I've made you uncomfortable." Sherlock realized.

"Yeah, a bit," John admitted. "I don't usually tell people about Harry and me, partly because I can't bear how awkward they look when they realize they don't have a clue what to say."

"Ah," Sherlock frowned as he considered that. "Would it be helpful if I told you what I have deduced, then you wouldn't need to concern yourself with my reaction?"

"No, it's alright," John took a moment to gather his thoughts. He supposed he might as well get used to never being able to keep things from Sherlock and if anyone could understand a dysfunctional sibling relationship, it was definitely the consulting detective. "Harry and I have always had our problems. I suppose the age gap didn't help. When we were growing up I was the annoying little brother she was expected to babysit for and she was the selfish older sister whose antics took up all my parents time and attention and made my Mum cry a lot."

"Antics?" Sherlock raised a brow.

"I think it started with her dying her hair, after that there was the whole range of body piercings, the outrageous clothes, the smoking, the drinking, the unsuitable friends, staying out all night, taking drugs. If there was any kind of risk involved, she probably tried it."

"So says the man who signed up to get shot at." Sherlock pointed out.

"That .. came afterwards," John paused, looking up at Sherlock as if searching for something important in his expression, he apparently found was he was looking for as he plunged on. "My parents were killed in a car crash a few months before my fifteenth birthday. Harry had rung up from some night club in a right state and they had gone to fetch her home. Some HGV driver already well over his hours ran a red light and plowed straight into them. They died at the scene."

"Harry became your legal guardian," Sherlock surmised, frowning a little at the concept. He couldn't imagine the self-centred young woman he had met investing a great deal of time and energy in raising her younger brother.

"In a manner of speaking," John's grimace spoke volumes. "She was old enough to take legal responsibility for me but she wasn't around all that much. I threw myself into my books, it was ironic really, I'd always been bright but I much preferred being outside mucking around with my mates, than doing any actual work. Mum and Dad were always nagging me about it, wanting me to do better. It took them dying for me to listen to their advice."

"And Harry?" Sherlock prompted.

"Harry started drinking in earnest," John admitted. "It got to the point where she was never really sober. I did my best to look after her but I wasn't much more than a kid myself. After she ended up in A and E having her stomach pumped, my parent's life insurance paid for her to check into rehab. I was sixteen by then so I used my share to go to a local Sixth Form College and then onto Bart's. By the time I graduated she was sober and was making a new life for herself with Clara."

"A life that didn't include you," Sherlock deduced. And people thought he was cold. "Is that why you decided to join the Army?"

"It was a part of it, I suppose, I was looking for a new family," John acknowledged, even as a wan smile graced his features. "That and the danger, of course."

"Of course, how could I forget the lure of the danger?" Sherlock smiled.

"Although, dealing with Harry can be pretty hairy when she's being .. difficult," John rubbed unconsciously at the bite scar on his arm. "How much did you give her again?"

Sherlock almost smiled. He should have known that even still feeling rather under par John wouldn't forget his earlier question. They both knew that when John said _difficult_ what he meant was blind drunk. He had already paid to have Mrs Hudson's rug dry cleaned and the porcelain vase restored by an expert at the British Museum who owned him a favour. They had both agreed to say nothing about either of those things to John. Knowing that Harriet Watson would never remember exactly how generous he had actually been, he settled on a sum he thought John would accept.

"Fifty pounds," He lied, adding a little apologetic shrug for effect. "It was all I had on me at the time."

"No that's fine, good of you," John forced a grateful smile. Not so long ago he would have blown fifty quid on a good night out with his friends without a second though. Now it represented a week's worth of groceries. He really needed to get himself a job. "I'll pay you back."

"Not at all," Sherlock protested. "I was happy to help, isn't that what flat mates are supposed to do for one another. Help each other out?"

"Doing the shopping and cleaning the bog," John acknowledged. "Not bailing out the alcoholic sister."

"John, the first time you met my sibling, he kidnapped you, attempted to intimidate you, invaded your privacy and then insulted you by offering you money to spy on me," Sherlock reminded him. "Granted Mycroft has always had a tendency towards the melodramatic but I hardly think I'm in any position to pass judgement, do you?"

"No, I suppose not," John grinned briefly at the memory. "Although, I should have listened to you and taken Mycroft's money when he offered, I don't suppose there's going to be much going down the job centre for a one handed surgeon. Perhaps, I could get some locum work or something."

"Wouldn't you need to retrain for that?" Sherlock wondered.

"Contrary to popular belief, the presence of bullets and IED's doesn't mean you become immune to everything else. I've had my share of sick bugs and ear infections and the like, more than enough to manage as a GP, presuming, of course, that I can persuade someone to give me a job."

"Mycroft has enough money to set you up in your own practice. That way you would always be available to help me on a case. " Sherlock said brightly. "I have at least three of his credit cards. I use them to make embarrassing or obscenely extravagant purchases whenever he gets particularly annoying. "

"Well, if I do need a loan, I'll know where to come," John smiled back. "Although, frankly he idea of being beholden to Mycroft for anything is more than a little disconcerting."

"Very true," Sherlock's lips quirked. "So, tea then?"

"If it's not too much trouble," John teased. "I mean, I know how tricky it is for a chemist of your caliber to ensure that the water is just off the boil, that the tea bag has had precisely the right amount of time to steep, only adding the optimum amount of milk, not to mention the challenge of finding a clean mug in the first place."

"Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock said with a totally straight face. "I was going to ask Mrs Hudson to oblige."

* * *

It was much later, almost midnight, when footsteps sounded on the stairs. Even so, Sherlock didn't look up from his microscope or otherwise acknowledge Lestrade's arrival in his living room. The man stood impatiently for several minutes, shifting his feet slightly as he stood waiting to be noticed, before he eventually spoke up in an attempt to attract his attention.

"Sherlock."

"Not interested." Sherlock didn't spare him a glance.

"You don't even know why I'm here yet."

And that _was_ sufficient to get his attention, because, after all this time, Lestrade really should know better than that. In fact, part of Sherlock wondered if the DI had actually intended to provoke him into addressing the situation by choosing those very words. Quite possibly, he decided, since Lestrade had proved himself to be relatively innovative in his methods in the past, his 'drugs bust' being a case in point, and they both knew that there was no way Sherlock Holmes could ever resist rising to a challenge.

"I know enough," Sherlock pointed out. "I know that you arrived in your own car rather than a police vehicle, so not a case, not an active one anyway, judging by the way that you actually walked up the stairs for once rather than taking them two at time. But it's something you need my assistance with, some sort of favour then, if the way you just stood in my living room for an unprecedented ten minutes before you actually tried to interrupt me is any indication."

"Right on all counts," Lestrade agreed. "But you still don't know why I'm here."

"And that would be because I'm not interested." Sherlock pointed out, as he returned to resolutely ignoring the Detective Inspector.

"For God's sake man, it's Harriet Watson."

Those words, coupled with the grave look on Lestrades' face were enough to bring Sherlock to his feet. His swift glance in the direction of John Watson's room, where his sick flat mate was presumably sleeping, went a long way to convince Lestrade that coming directly to Holmes wasn't actually the stupidest thing he had ever done. Even though, Dimmock had done his best to persuade him otherwise.

_"__That arrogant git?" Dimmock had scoffed. "You can't honestly think he's going to care about this?"_

_"__Not about the girl, no," Lestrade agreed. "But I'm hoping that he'll at least think about what this would mean for John Watson."_

"Is she dead?" Sherlock asked bluntly.

"What? No, Christ no," Lestrade protested, his optimism plummeting at the other man's apparently uncaring words. "How could you even think that?"

"Your lack of urgency rules out any kind of injury or accident," Sherlock pointed out calmly. "Still, the matter is serious enough that you came yourself, rather than delegating the task, which indicates you wanted to ensure that the situation was handled appropriately. Since you primarily work with homicides it seemed logical to assume that you came in person to break the bad news to John that his sister had been murdered."

"Well, she hasn't been and she's not dead," Lestrade hissed, glancing nervously in the direction of John's room. "And for God's sake will you keep your voice down? Do you really want him to hear any of this?"

"So, if she isn't dead then why are you here?" Sherlock asked more quietly.

Sherlock hadn't apologized for his words and Lestrade didn't really expect him to. But he did take the fact that the consulting detective had deigned to lower his voice as something of a promising sign. Weighing up his options, Lestrade decided to stop beating around the bush and just cut straight to the chase.

"Because you have the funds to pay the criminal damages which will make this whole mess go away and from what I can tell that poor bloke upstairs definitely doesn't."

"Criminal damage?" Sherlock frowned If Lestrade didn't know better he might even have said the consulting detective looked a shade guilty, although why Sherlock would feel remotely responsible for Harriet Watson's actions was beyond him. "How much exactly?"

"A fair bit I'm afraid," Lestrade shrugged. "Place was a high end club, celebrating its re-launch after a major re-fit by a top interior designer. Apparently, Ms Watson had blagged her way in by putting £500 in cash behind the bar, she's presently unemployed so Christ knows where she got that kind of money, course as soon as she'd drunk it dry they cut her off, by that point she was totally wasted and completely trashed the joint. Luckily, she's been a good customer in the past, a very good customer, if you get my drift, so the proprietor is prepared to give her some leeway. He'll drop all the charges the damages are paid in full within twenty four hours."

"You want me to pay for a bar fight," Sherlock's expression gave no indication whether he was receptive to that or not. "Was she arrested?"

"The proprietor called the police," Lestrade made a face. "When they turned up Ms Watson was a bit mouthy and not very co-operative. Threw up on one of the officer's shoes and tried to take a swing at another. She missed by a country mile but they weren't taking any chances after that."

"And how exactly did the detention of one of no doubt numerous Saturday night drunks, happen to come to your attention?"

Lestrade hesitated. This was where things got difficult. John Watson struck him as a decent bloke. Almost a saint if you took into account his willingness to deal with Sherlock Holmes on a daily basis. Plus, there was no denying that having him around had helped bring some of Sherlock's better qualities to the fore. He certainly didn't deserve this. But there was really no avoiding it.

"She refused to give a urine sample so the custody sergeant had to ask for a blood sample to be taken."

"Don't tell me," Sherlock rolled his eyes. It really was the only explanation. "Anderson."

"I'm sorry," Lestrade sounded truly sincere. They both knew the forensic scientist was only pulling the hated Saturday night custody suite duty with its endless procession of drunks, drug addicts and related injuries, as punishment for being even more of a git to Sherlock than usual at a recent crime scene. So, much so that John Watson had stepped in and demanded that Lestrade take him down a peg or two. Anderson had made no secret of his resentment. "It's bloody awful timing, I know."

"How many people has he already told?"

"Some," Lestrade admitted. "Too many, I've been doing my best to keep a lid on it. But if we don't throw some money at this problem pretty sharpish then Harriet Watson is going to end up in prison and then there won't be anything either of us can do to protect her brother from that."

"A custody sentence? That's rather unlikely isn't it?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he considered the problem. "Ah, it wasn't her first offence, was it? Or, even her second, means the judge is far less likely to go easy on her, if she's been up before him before he might even want to use her to make an example Who's sitting tomorrow?"

"Dawkins," Lestrade admitted with a grimace.

"Definitely prison then," Sherlock surmised. "That man would bring back the death penalty if he could."

"So, will you help?" Lestrade demanded.

And there it was, because this wasn't one of _those _cases. There was nothing here to challenge Holmes' great intellect. Nothing to tempt him away from whatever he had been so engrossed in when Lestrade came to call. On the contrary, if he did get involved it was going to cost him a fair amount of inconvenience and a considerable amount of money. Lestrade knew that Sherlock's tolerance for John Watson was far higher than it was for most people but he wasn't at all sure what to expect.

"On one condition." Sherlock said smoothly.

"I'll deal with Anderson." Lestrade promised quickly.

"Not that," Sherlock was impatient. "Although, I wouldn't object in the slightest if you wished to remove his vital organs with a blunt spoon."

"Then what?"

Lestrade knew better than to let out the breath he was holding just yet. The Lord only knew what kind of conditions Sherlock might impose in return for his assistance. Although, when it came, he had to admit that it was absolutely the last thing he expected from a man with an ego as enormous as Sherlock Holmes.

"Neither Ms Watson nor John are to know anything about my involvement in this."

"How the hell am I supposed to manage that?" Lestrade protested.

"Not my problem," Sherlock pointed out. "So, are we agreed?"

"Yes, yes, I suppose so," Lestrade agreed. "So, will you help?"

In the event, it had been a simple thing for Sherlock to transfer sufficient funds to the proprietor's bank account to cover the damages, plus a bit extra to ensure that the whole mess stayed out of the press, a second call smoothed the wheels for Harriet Watson to check into a rehabilitation clinic. Lestrade stamped firmly on all the rumours circulating around Scotland Yard and to (almost) everyone's surprise. Sergeant Donovan stepped up on John's behalf to ensure Anderson's silence.

"_Poor bloke has enough problems hanging around with the freak," _was all she would say_, "He doesn't deserve to take the flak for his sister's mistakes as well."_

And Sherlock had thanked her politely and held his peace, not making any reference to her own shame at her father's numerous drink driving convictions. All in all, he felt quite pleased with himself.

But he should have remembered there was always_ something_.

* * *

The following day Sherlock scowled darkly as he climbed into the back of the taxi. It was bad enough that he had made the trip all the way out to Wandsworth Prison for nothing more than a mind numbing open and shut case of GBH. It never ceased to amaze him that criminals who had been stupid enough to get caught in the first place thought they could pull the wool over his eyes. But to add insult to injury the prison regulations required that he surrendered his mobile phone before entering the visitor's room.

_17 New Messages_

Clicking deftly through his inbox Sherlock ignored as _boring_ most of the e-mails generated by his website, saving just one of those as worth investigating as a viable case, his thumb hovering over the one message from Lestrade and three from John. He selected the ones from John first of all.

"_Feeling much better, Lestrade is coming around to take me out for a pie and pint so if I'm not home when you get back we'll be in the pub. JW"_

"_Got a message from Harry, she was arrested last night. Come if you can? JW"_

"_Spoke to Lestrade. Don't rush back. I'll leave the key with Mrs Hudson. JW"_

After that Sherlock didn't bother to check the message from Lestrade, he simply promised the cabbie a fifty pound tip if he followed his directions to the letter in order to return him to 221b in the most optimum time. Racing up the stairs he came face to face with DI Lestrade in off duty jeans and grey sweat shirt.

"You told him."

"Well, of course, I did," Lestrade defended his actions. "That was a good thing you did. He seems like a decent bloke. He deserves to know that you're not an arrogant git all the time. You should be pleased. I've done you a favour."

"Is that why he's upstairs packing?" Sherlock scoffed.

"Oh don't be such a .." Lestrade trailed off at Sherlock's unwavering expression, and his own features showed a flicker of apprehension. "He's not is he? Why the hell would he do that?"

"Did it never occur to you that I had a perfectly good reason for not telling John about our intervention?" Sherlock spoke icily.

"I didn't mean, .. oh damn," Lestrade ran a hand over his face. "What can I do?"

"Leave." Sherlock ordered curtly.

Sherlock took the stairs two at a time not bothering to see if Lestrade had obeyed his instruction, only to pause as he reached the threshold of John's bedroom. Through the half open door he could see the other man carefully folding jumpers and shirts before placing them in an almost full suitcase. His eyes narrowed as he catalogued exactly how tried and defeated John Watson looked.

"So, I spoke to Harry," John spoke without turning, his voice dangerously low and level "Apparently, she got arrested last night, because some muppet gave her £500 in cash and she put it behind the bar until she'd drunk the lot. And then when she was completely tanked they cut her off so surprise, surprise, she trashed the place."

"I didn't realize she would spend all of it on drink." Sherlock defended his actions.

"She's an alcoholic, Sherlock, what the hell did you _think _she was going to do with that much money?" John raised his voice, tension quite evident in his back and shoulders. "This isn't one of your experiments, this is my sister's life. She could have gone to _prison_, Sherlock. With that much alcohol in her system she could easily have _died_."

"But she didn't."

"Not this time," John allowed. "And not ever if I can help it. I'm going to go back to Surrey to live with her for a bit. Coming back to London was a mistake. I thought I could pick up my old life where I left off. But things have changed, people have moved on. I've changed. I thought, maybe .. but I can't help thinking this is for the best."

"But the rehabilitation clinic," Sherlock frowned. "It's all arranged."

"It also costs a bloody fortune," John pointed out. "And in case you haven't noticed Harry doesn't have any money and I've been more than a bit unemployed recently and I thought I made it clear I don't want to be indebted to a man whose idea of introducing himself is to kidnap me in order to make veiled threats in a deserted parking garage."

"The clinic really is _very _good." Sherlock said quietly.

John opened his mouth to make another sharp retort, when he registered not only exactly what Sherlock had said, but more importantly how he had said it. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath before he opened them again.

"You didn't use Mycroft's contacts to find the clinic did you?" He didn't wait for an answer. He knew he was right. Sherlock knew the clinic was good because it was somewhere himself had been a patient there. John took a deep breath. Perhaps, he had over reacted just a bit. He still wasn't feeling 100%. "You didn't use Mycroft's money for the criminal damages either, did you?"

"People pay extremely well for my services," Sherlock spoke without a hint of modesty. "My only concern is the work. The money isn't important. I recognized that I could have handled the situation more efficiently yesterday so I was endeavoring to address that."

"Was that an apology?" John almost smiled.

"Of course not," Sherlock retorted, an amused glint in his eye. "I think you're still feeling slightly feverish."

"Thank you," John decided he should probably be a little more grateful. Sherlock had been an idiot but he had genuinely tried to make amends. "But Harry is still my sister and whatever our differences have been I can't turn my back on her when she needs me."

"Much as it pains me to point out the glaringly obvious I think we both know Harriet Watson has never really _needed_ anyone. Not you. Not your parents. Not even Clara. She left her after all. Answer me one question, when she called did she even ask how you were or why you hadn't been answering your calls for the last week?"

"No, she didn't," John sighed. "If I'm honest we've never really had that kind of relationship. At first I thought it was because I was too young. But as I got older we just seemed to grow further apart. I mean, I'm a doctor I help people, that's what I do. And I can't help but blame myself that I've never been able to be that person."

"Perhaps not for Harry." Sherlock murmured.

John froze, his fingers tightening on the wool of the jumper in his hands as the true meaning of what Sherlock was trying to tell him sunk in.

"John, I don't think you appreciate how much I value your input into my life. I am used to living alone working with whatever assistant Lestrade can provide I'm not accustomed to having someone I can rely on. It's very useful to me. I would like to think we could be partners."

"And you really didn't mean that the way it sounded," John frowned. "Or at least, I hope you didn't."

"Don't be obtuse, John, you know exactly what I meant."

"Partners in crime?" John tipped his head on one side as he reflected upon that. If he was honest with himself Sherlock was probably right that Harriet would be better cared for in the rehabilitation clinic. John had looked it up on the Internet and it was indeed extremely good. And that fact that Sherlock had been prepared to go to such lengths for a woman he had only met once, for_ his _sake, was oddly touching. "Maybe I should put that on my new CV?"


End file.
